No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, exceptfor the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Whoever said singles were missing out by not finding true love and getting married before the age of thirty had never experienced the sheer pleasure of nightly romantic comedy viewings in their underwear while eating one of Licked’s famous Crazy Cat Lady sundaes. Because life just doesn’t get better than that.

At least, it doesn’t for Shayne Callahan. It didn’t take more than a handful of broken hearts after college to solidify that she was better at pairing up those around her than herself. As a matchmaker at the elite HLS—Hook, Line, & Sinker Matchmaking Company—in the City of Angels, she has a knack for finding the other halves of even the most eccentric clients:

Sugar daddy with a foot fetish? Gross, but no problem.

A severe case of nudophobia? Match made before lunch.

But even the most happily independent of women can find their best-laid plans screeching to a halt when they meetthatguy. For Shayne,thatguy comes in the form of boyishly handsome, suspender-lovin’, dimple-poppin’ Nate Ryan on a pantsless (we’ll get to that later) Metro ride.

Of course, relationships can never be easy. Before the destined lovers can ride off into the sunset, they must overcome a power-hungry and sexual-punning boss, a celebrity scandal and cover-up, and let’s not forget Shayne’s dreadful foot-in-mouth disease—with which there can never be a happily ever after.

Will fate throw Shayne a freakin’ bone? Or will she be destined to live out her life as sexy(ish), single(ish), and L.A.’s finest Hooker (upper)?

Thank you for letting me oh-so-casually insert myself into your family. Stuck with me, you are.

CHAPTER ONE

How I Lost My Pants on the Red Line

“TAKE YOUR PANTS off!”

The war cry from the naked man streaking down the sidewalk didn’t do much to ignite the crowd gathered at the corner of Hollywood and Highland, but then neither did the way he bounced around the pedestrians like a pinball.

Living in L.A., I was used to dodgy public displays for attention, which were usually in the form of someone golden-showering the sidewalk in broad daylight as I passed—I know. Sweet, right?—and it was best just to ignore them and not engage.

Poor tourists, on the other hand…

Gasps from a pair of female fifty-somethings to my right caught naked man’s attention, and he dashed through the crowd in their direction, waving his spindly arms up in the air like one of those inflatable dancing-man balloons.

Oh Lord. Here it comes.

As my friends and I watched the train wreck happen with sympathetic stares, naked man reached the tourist duo—their fingers still white-knuckling their pearls—and then a maniacal grin crossed his face. Quicker than they could react, he dacked them.

Oh, sorry. Dacking is what Americans would call pantsing. As in pulling their loose trousers down to their knees to expose all the gloriousness that is hiding underneath. Err…or not, as it were, unless faded, flowery granny panties were in fashion. And I seriously doubted the hipsters were trolling vintage shops in search of those right now.

Groaning, I wondered how I’d let myself get talked into this. And bythis, I mean the annual Pantsless Metro Ride, not the voyeurism I was currently engaged in. And yes, you read that right—I said pantsless, meaning those poor grandmas weren’t the only ones walking around half-naked.

Nope, dozens of bodies around me sported various undergarments as they headed to the Metro station around the corner. Apparently, this annual event took place at over sixty cities around the world every January. I couldn’t even tell you why the hell it was a “thing,” since, at least in L.A., it seemed like just another way for the whacked-out to completely lose their minds.

I glared as I faced my three best friends, Quinn, Paige, and Ryleigh, who were still watching the chaos running rampant around us. When we’d made New Year’s resolutions a couple of weeks ago to, and I quote, “do stupid tourist stuff and things we’d never usually say yes to,” I had no idea that riding the subway half-naked in the middle of winter would fall into that category. This whole thing was a nightmare for me, mostly because I towered over my friends, which made blending in with the crowd almost impossible. Andthatmeant more eyes on my undies.

I pulled my jacket tighter around me.

“You better hurry and take yours off before he does it for you,” Quinn said, nudging me in the side. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear what your horoscope said today about strangers in your life.”

“No, I don’t. And that’s easy for you to say,” I mumbled. She looked as badass as ever with her glossy black hair trailing down her back, dressed in her signature leather jacket and a pair of black combat boots. You barely noticed she was wearing a pair of faux-leather bikini bottoms for pants. It looked like she’d left the house that way on purpose.

“I’m not sure why I have to take off my—” My words were cut off as a gust of wind whipped up my coat and had me shrieking. “Fuck, it’s bloody freezing.”

Paige, ever the showgirl, stepped away from us and made a big show of unzipping her flared jeans. “It’s not that bad,” she said, bending over as she pushed her pants down to her ankles and then stepped out of them. Whistles of admiration from male passersby had her grinning as she straightened and tossed her blond locks over her shoulder. She was positively indecent in a pair of skimpy lace panties that were almost see-through. I was more shocked that it wasn’t a G-string, to be honest.

Ryleigh laughed as she grabbed Paige’s pants from her and shoved them into the oversized bag she’d brought to hold our clothes. Then she held her hand out to me. “All right, hooker. Off with ’em.”

I glanced around me, at all the people passing by us all rugged up, and shivered, but this time not from the cold. “Did you know winter cold kills more people than summer heat does? I’m not really up for dying today, and even if I didn’t die from frostbite, it’s a known fact that cold weather increases your appetite, which makes you gain weight, and then your libido drops, and when that happens, it means you don’t feel like having sex, and I just don’t think—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Paige said as another blast of bitter wind whipped our hair wild and had us huddling together for warmth. “If you don’t take your pants off right now, Shayne Callahan, I’m doing it for you.”

Oh hell.She used my full name, which meant I had about five seconds before smoke blew from her ears. I decided to push my luck anyway.

“Tell you what. I’ll hold the bag while you guys parade around naked, how’s that?”

When a low growl sounded in response, I put my hands up. “Okay, okay. But if this causes me to lose my sex drive, I’m suing you all for damages.”

Squeezing my eyes closed, I unbuttoned my jeans and hesitated.Just rip it off like a Band-Aid. It’s not like anyone’s watching…

In one quick move, I slid my pants down, stumbled out of them, and then held them away from me for Ryleigh to grab. When whoops and exclamations rang out from my friends, I opened my eyes.

“Lookin’ good, hooker,” Ryleigh said with an approving eye before linking her arm through mine as we headed toward the Metro escalator. “I totally need those in my life.”

“I can’t believe you wore Star Wars boyshorts,” Paige grumbled as she trailed behind us with Quinn. “Didn’t I buy you bitches gift cards to Trashy Lingerie for Christmas?”

Quinn snorted. “I bet she gets more attention in those than you do in yours. What guy can resist gorgeousandnerdy?”

“This sounds like a bet,” Paige said.

“No,” I said, wagging my finger in her face. “No way am I going after numbers dressed like this, and I’m not doing the bend and snap in front of guys to see who can get the loudest whistles either.”

Paige’s bottom lip popped out. “You’re no fun.”

After we tapped our Metro cards and walked through the turnstile, we headed down another escalator to the packed platform. As I glanced over the wide variety of people gathered below, I couldn’t believe there were so many willing to strip down to their underwear for no reason at all.

There were hipsters in their fedoras and glasses with underwear that was trying too hard (a.k.a.notgranny panties); there were giggly college kids that hadn’t yet gained what Ryleigh referred to as “their freshmen fifteen,” wearing size-zero jackets and brightly colored, barely there bikinis; a small group of technogeeks sported their vintage Mario Kart boxers; there were the parading glamazons who could’ve rocked the Rodeo boutiques without even putting their pants back on; and then…there were the rest of us.

The “normal” lot, with our lumps and curves—or stick-straight body with no curves, in my own case—and dressed in our everyday wear, which for most were heavy jackets (it was a freezing-for-L.A. fifty degrees outside), boots, and our nicest cotton underwear—the ones that provided the most coverage. Mine just happened to have a picture of Boba Fett on the ass with the tag line “I have a Boba Fett-ish.”

“See,” Paige said, smiling broadly. “This isn’t so bad.”

A shudder went through Quinn, and she wrinkled her nose. “I dunno. I’m all for embracing your body, but some people really shouldn’t be naked in public.”